


bury me 'til i confess

by psikeval



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff without Plot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is taken care of, in more ways than he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bury me 'til i confess

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by [Adri](http://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile) & [Anna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barkour), who started talking about foot rubs on twitter, knowing that I am weak.

If blame is to be cast, it should fall entirely on the Iron Bull, for being too damn good at this.

After what felt like _hours_ of teasing, attention lavished on every bit of his body and a really quite spectacular round of spanking, Bull is finally fucking him, always so careful to start, one huge hand holding Dorian’s thigh and the other braced against the bed. The slow drag of his cock is overwhelming, perfect, and Dorian all but whimpers. His toes curl, and then his entire, traitorous foot cramps up and his leg spasms in Bull’s loose grip. “ _Ow_.”

“What?” It’s more an assurance ( _I hear you, I’m listening_ ) than actual question. Sometimes Dorian wonders if Bull isn’t more attuned to every single throb of pain in his body than Dorian himself; at any rate, he’s already gone still and is glancing at Dorian’s foot.

“No,” he swats at Bull’s arm. “Continue. I’m perfectly all right.” 

The Iron Bull rumbles at him, amusement too small to budge his shoulders. “Just what I always wanna hear.”

And instead of moving the slightest inch, Bull runs his hand down Dorian’s leg until he’s holding the foot in question, drags his thumb hard along the arch.

“Ahh.” It _hurts_ , even as Bull digs in and rubs in steady circles, erasing the ache and leaving only warmth behind.

“Easy there.” He looks down at Dorian, and Dorian looks at the newly installed set of curtains—dark russet, third of their line—because it still feels new enough to clench in his throat, these unguarded touches and the softness in Bull’s eye that means he could be hurt, that _Dorian_ could hurt him. And perhaps has always had that power.

Better not to realize, he thinks, blinking hard as Bull’s fingers idly circle his ankle. He’s always felt that honesty is a terrible thing to inflict on oneself.

Dorian clears his throat.

“Well, while you’ve stopped,” he grouses, “you might as well get down here.”

It earns him a crooked smile, so the blow to his pride is worth it. Iron Bull kisses him gently, thoroughly, and doesn’t stop when he resumes those torturously slow thrusts of his hips, lets Dorian get a grip on his horns and hold him there.


End file.
